


Unveil

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cousin Incest, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Heat claims Maedhros hard, but Fëanor knows how to have it handled.





	Unveil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DolorHibTibiProderitOlim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolorHibTibiProderitOlim/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for thecurseofhotfeet’s “Maedhros/Fingon with #8 A/B/O, especially if it involved heat. maybe omega Maedhros” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Every time the wave of agony leaves his bones, a new one comes, and it wracks him just as hard, just as fierce. Nelyafinwë curls against his pillow and buries his screams into it, hoping desperately that none of his brothers can hear him down the halls. Worse yet, he hopes his father doesn’t. They all must _know_. They saw him collapse at dinner last night, and his absence from training must be all too conspicuous. But right now, Nelyafinwë doesn’t trust himself to hold a sword. He doesn’t trust himself with anything. He still wears his flimsy night-robe, so thin and yet not thin _enough_ , even though he wants to writhe naked beneath the sheets. His body is slick with sweat, the _heat_ cloying beneath his skin. He bites down his scream and tries to push the pain aside—his alpha will come for him soon. He knows that. 

A knock comes to his door, and at first, his feverish mind thinks that must be it. They’re connected beyond all reason; of course his lover would intrinsically know when Nelyafinwë had need of him. But when the door opens, not even waiting for Nelyafinwë’s answer, it’s his father that slips inside.

Fëanáro is as tall and grand as ever, dressed in crimson and gold and many jewels, befitting his boundless station. It makes Nelyafinwë feel all the more pitiful by comparison: like he’s let his father down. He whimpers and tries to reach for the sheets he’s kicked aside, pulling them up to his shoulder, and Fëanáro frowns down at him, pity in those great eyes. Nelyafinwë never wants pity.

But he can’t do anything to stop it. Fëanáro drifts to the side of the bed, sinking down onto the mattress. Nelyafinwë wishes he’d had the foresight to draw the curtains. Fëanáro reaches out to gently pet back Nelyafinwë’s copper hair and softly ask, “How is my darling boy?”

Nelyafinwë wants to insists he’s _fine_ , but he’s never lied to his father—save, of course, the one secret he keeps hidden, because Fëanáro would _never_ approve. He only winds up whining hoarsely, “ _Ata_ , my need is growing desperate...” He bites his lip to cut himself off. He feels vaguely ashamed.

But Fëanáro’s eyes are still kind, in a way they never are for any save his sons. He sighs, “Yes, you are coming to that age now... you have grown too powerful a warrior, my worthy heir. Your stamina can no longer be satiated only with a hand... therefore, I have seen that you will be taken care of.”

Nelyafinwë’s brows draw together in confusion, and he whispers, lost, “Ata?”

“Come,” Fëanáro bids. He rises from the bed and offers a hand, one Nelyafinwë takes, even though he’s hardly dressed to leave and the shudders still wrack his body. He still lets Fëanáro tug him up. He trusts his father implicitly. Fëanáro places a hand around his back as though to hold him up, then guides him slowly for the door, one step at a time.

Bare-footed and fraught with aching shivers, Nelyafinwë is taken through the towering halls of their home. The servants they pass all rush by with lowered heads, and Nelyafinwë is glad to see none of his brothers on the way. When they come to Fëanáro’s audience chamber, Nelyafinwë’s steps falter.

He can _feel it_. His alpha is close, so near to him, that rich scent in the air and the comfort all around him. He almost breathes a sigh of relief, before he sees properly what lies before him. There’s a line of elves across the middle, each standing taut, dressed finely, their eyes hidden in elaborate masks—the sort Turcafinwë loves to carve at the forge. The identities of all those present are indistinguishable, except for the one third from the left, that Nelyafinwë stares at unequivocally. 

“Your suitors,” Fëanáro explains, gesturing out at them. “I have bid them come in disguise, for all are my people, and some from this very house, others at my invitation. It is tradition that eligible alphas are hidden from the omega, lest that omega feel embarrassment over what occurred upon a later meeting. Between the masks and the haze of your heat, you will not recognize again nor feel bound to any that serve you here—that should be chosen in times of a clear mind. You may choose one for yourself, my Nelyo, and they will serve you accordingly, as loyally as if they were my own attendant.”

Indeed, one might be. Nelyafinwë imagines all had to submit applications, but one must have been forged, for no disguise could hide _Findekáno_ from Nelyafinwë. He sees right through the mask, deeper, perhaps, than even skin, into the very being of the creature before him. There’s no choice to be had. 

Nelyafinwë walks as steadily as he can towards Findekáno, though his feet want to fly. He comes as close as he dares, enough that his naked toes brush Findekáno’s boots, and he can hear Findekáno’s breath hitch, as though Nelyafinwë could’ve ever chosen anyone else. He’d hoped Findekáno would come for him, as Findekáno always had before their exile. He should’ve known better than to doubt that Findekáno would.

Suddenly, the pain is gone. The heat remains, broiling and desperate, and Nelyafinwë can feel himself becoming aroused even here, under so many eyes, with Findekáno so handsome before him. Thinking of lying with Findekáno again, of _being_ with him, being _claimed_ by him... it’s too much for Nelyafinwë to handle. He murmurs quickly, “This one.”

Fëanáro strolls up behind him. He can feel his father in his peripherals, curious, and he can feel his cheeks flushing for it—for fear Fëanáro will discover why. But Fëanáro merely drawls, “You should observe them all, Nelyo. You need not simply settle for the first you see...”

Nelyafinwë shakes his head. He doesn’t have time to survey the others. He wants to fall to his knees for Findekáno right here. He insists, “This one,” and something in his voice must bear his old strength, for Fëanáro nods.

“Very well.” With a wave of his hand, Fëanáro dismisses the others. They turn to leave, hanging their heads and muttering beneath their breath, but Nelyafinwë has eyes for none of them. None of them ever stood a chance. He stares into Findekáno’s face, gorgeous even when half hidden, and Findekáno dares a subtle smile.

He steps forward, only for Fëanáro to place a hand on his shoulder and hiss, “You will treat him well, or the consequences will be dire.”

Nelyafinwë chides, “Ata,” but Findekáno merely nods. He wisely doesn’t risk his voice. Then Fëanáro steps aside, and Nelyafinwë slips his hand into Findekáno’s familiar palm. The touch blazes like lightning, sending a shiver of delight up Nelyafinwë’s spine. He _needed this_. Needed _Findekáno._

He tugs Findekáno by the hand, all but racing down the halls, and Findekáno wisely avoids breaking cover; the halls aren’t yet safe. It isn’t until they’re inside Nelyafinwë’s rooms and Nelyafinwë’s slammed the door shut that Findekáno breathes, “ _Maitimo_ —” He doesn’t get to finish, because Nelyafinwë’s slammed their mouths together, kissing Findekáno for all he’s worth. 

He _loves_ Findekáno. Adores him. And this confirms everything. When Findekáno’s tongue slips into Nelyafinwë’s mouth, every last trouble is gone, a heavy weight lifted from him, endless _lust_ and devotion in its place. Nelyafinwë buries one hand in Findekáno’s hair, then parts them just enough to rip the mask away. It clatters to the floor, forgotten, and Findekáno’s beautiful eyes bore into his. Findekáno purrs, “You are always the most stunning in heat, my love.” Then he surges in for a kiss again, one Nelyafinwë fills with tongue while pawing at Findekáno’s robes and hair. He wants to be filled _now_ , wants Findekáno inside him, touching him, making love to him the way only Findekáno could. Findekáno is his _everything_. 

They stumble backwards as they kiss, moving towards the bed. Findekáno murmurs against his lips, “My disguise was not good enough, I take it?”

“Not for me,” Nelyafinwë laughs, wondrously happy, as he pulls the sash from Findekáno’s waist and chucks it across the floor. Another kiss, and then, “How did you get in?”

“Nothing could keep me from my omega in his time of need,” Findekáno promises, and this time, he loops his arm around Nelyafinwë’s waist and tosses him backwards onto the bed.

Nelyafinwë crawls back, making room, spreads his legs and breathlessly begs, “Claim me again.”

And Findekáno crawls forward to oblige.


End file.
